


all those shadows almost killed your light

by tambuli



Series: by what right (does the dragon judge the griffon) [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Major canon divergence, POV Alistair, all origins are true, just wait a bit for them to show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambuli/pseuds/tambuli
Summary: Duncan told Alistair to watch over the Lady Cousland, so he's watching. Really. It's not because he's...smitten or anything. It's just.All right, never mind, bad idea.Or:The adventures of Lady Cousland and her companions, including but are not limited to: a far-too-clever mabari, a sharp-tongued can-she-just-crawl-into-a-bush-and-die apostate, a suspiciously capable Chantry sister, an escaped blood mage, and a not-at-all-smitten almost-templar Grey Warden. Just another Grey Warden, ho-hum, no secret ancestries here. It's not like that's ever going to be important...right? Right?





	1. Ostagar

The Lady Cousland won’t so much as touch the Grey Warden armor offered to her by Duncan, choosing instead to don the same silver and blue armor she’s been wearing since she arrived at Ostagar. To hear Duncan tell it, she’s been wearing the same plate since they fled Highever. She also refuses to even consider using the traditionally enchanted anti-darkspawn weapons of the order, hefting her greatsword Champion of Swords instead and saying icily, “This is all I’ll need, thank you very much.”

Her tone made the thanks seem like no thanks at all.

“What bee’s gotten into her bonnet?” Alistair mutters to Duncan once the lady is out of earshot.

“Her home was attacked by her father’s best friend, she had to leave her parents to die, and she was pressed into service into an order she had no interest in joining,” Duncan says succinctly.

Well, when he puts it that way.

Duncan frowns and says, “The Lady Cousland is very unhappy here, Alistair. Try to make her as comfortable as possible. It cannot be easy, adjusting like this. And her family, too…”

Alistair nods and says, “I’ll do my best.”

Alistair knows of Lady Cousland, the same way Alistair knows of every noble family in Ferelden: in passing, in half-remembered lessons from ten years ago before he entered Templar training. The Couslands had two children: the heir and the spare. They were lucky, also—the spare was a daughter, meaning she could be married off once the heir had an heir.

Last he head, the heir of Highever had a son just a bit younger than Connor, which meant Lady Cousland was probably set to be married soon.

Maybe she’d had a lover. Maybe that lover perished in the Highever attack. Alistair might never know, and the blue fire in Lady Cousland’s eyes warned him not to even try asking.

That fire was well-used in battle, though, Alistair had to admit. He’d watched, barely believing his eyes, as the tiny woman heft that greatsword of hers, and cleaved a hurlock neatly in half.

He knows men in the order twice as large who couldn’t handle a blade half as deftly, and here was little Lady Cousland with her perfectly braided brown hair, wiping blood off her face with a lace handkerchief as if she’d just been slicing bread for afternoon tea.

She didn’t grin in victory, though. That was the thing about Lady Cousland: she never smiled.

Considering all she’d gone through, Alistair thought that was fair.

The darkspawn have retreated momentarily, letting the Ostagar camp have a night’s rest. Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, and Duncan have similarly retreated into the king’s tent, presumably to discuss strategy. Alistair and Lady Cousland sit at the fire of the Grey Warden camp. Alistair is staring at the sparks, while the lady polishes her silverite—silverite!—armor. 

Alistair doesn’t realize he’s speaking until he’s already done so.

“If I had silverite armor, I wouldn’t want to wear the Grey Wardens’ steel armor either.”

The lady turns and nails him with icy blue eyes. 

“I’d rather not wear Grey Warden armor at all. Or any emblem of it.”

“Why’s that?” Alistair pushes. In for a copper, in for a gold, he thinks. “I mean, surely you can see how necessary the Grey Wardens are now. The darkspawn are undeniable. I saw you kill four just today.”

“Five,” the lady corrects, “and—” she pauses. “There are—were—others more willing than I. Others who dreamed about being Grey Wardens.”

“You’re a very good fighter,” Alistair points out.

“I’m a teyrn’s daughter,” she says, as if Alistair is a little dim. Or a lot dim. “I was meant to marry a bann or an arl, and run the lands. If I were ever to raise a blade it would be in defense of my home, and I could go back afterwards. I never wanted this.”

She sweeps out one hand, indicating the griffons and the Grey Warden banners.

“I guess after the Blight is over you can look into a retirement plan,” Alistair says.

And—there! Just for a moment, but it was there—Lady Cousland’s inexplicably-still-painted-where-did-she-get-the-lipstick-this-is-a-warzone lips quirked up into a tiny smile.

Alistair feels like cheering.

“You’re a good fighter yourself, Ser Alistair,” Lady Cousland says. “When the time comes to retake Highever, I would be honored to have you at my back.”

Not at her side, part of Alistair notes. But majority of him is reeling at the knowledge that a) she knows his name and b) she thinks he fights well! She wants him with her!

“If Duncan agrees—” he begins, and sees her blue eyes begin to ice over. “No, even if the order doesn’t agree. I’m sure they won’t miss two junior members going off for a bit,” he jokes. “I’ll be glad to serve you on your quest, my lady.”

And there it is: a genuine smile. “Why, Ser Alistair,” she says. “What on earth would two junior members of the order be doing, going off together?”

Alistair stutters and blushes, and Lady Cousland throws her head back, exposing that beautiful throat, and laughs, laughs, laughs.

xxx

“I want you and Alistair to light the beacon,” Cailan says, and all Alistair can feel is confusion.

The lady furrows her brow.

“Cailan,” she begins, and hadn’t Alistair goggled at that, the first time he heard her address the king so familiarly, not knowing then that she was second only to royalty? “Cailan, I appreciate it, but I can fight, you know.”

“No doubt of that, Ailis,” Cailan says, flashing that golden king smile. “I remember that tournament very well! But there’s more at stake than Highever, and you know it.”

The Lady Cousland looks at Cailan for a long moment, then nods. “As you will, Cailan.”

They stand like that for a moment, filling Alistair’s vision: golden king in golden plate, and all-but-royal lady in silver and blue. She wears Warden colors after all, he thinks idiotically, just not the griffon. The torchlight seems to play on the blond and brown of their hair, turning it gold and bronze. They seem so achingly royal Alistair feels base just looking at them.

Duncan clears his throat. Alistair startles—he’s all but forgotten the Warden-Commander was there, caught up in the interplay of two bluebloods as he was.

“Where will you place the rest of us, Your Majesty?” he asks, and Cailan launches into his battle plans with glee.

xxx

He finds her later, just before they set off, petting her mabari.

He’d almost choked when he found out her mabari’s name is Calenhad. As in, he was taking a draught of wine when he heard her call, “Calenhad! To me!” and he’d spluttered on his mouthful. To name a mabari after a king—he’s not sure if it’s a compliment or a tweaking of her nose.

Considering the way she dotes on the beast, he rather thinks it’s a loving, patriotic tribute.

“Do you think it’s true they can speak, but choose not to?” he asks, squatting down next to them.

“Calenhad speaks,” she says, “just not in Common. You should hear him when he’s begging from Nan—” she stops.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, lamely, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, getting up and dusting herself off. “Come, Calenhad.”

She’s angry, he’s made her angry, and he doesn’t know why, but it surely serves them well as she charges into the fray and unceremoniously beheads a genlock. He’d like to ask her what’s wrong, but it’s also not the time, so he shelves the thought for another time.

Later, when they’ve killed all the darkspawn in the tower (where did they all come from?) and they’ve gotten back to base camp. Then he’ll apologize, and try to make her laugh like he did back then, even if it was because of his sheer idiocy. She has a lovely laugh. He’d like to hear it more.

And then Teyrn Loghain betrays them, and Alistair can’t find anything to laugh at anymore.


	2. Flemeth's Hut and Lothering

She won’t wake up.

 

The Lady Cousland—Ailis, he tastes it on his tongue, _Ailis, Ailis_ , he’s never dared called her that to her face before, and now he might never get the chance—lies comatose on a bed in a hut in the middle of nowhere, the last of two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. The last Cousland, probably.

 

Her chest rises and falls regularly, her wounds are clotting, and none of them are infected. But she won’t wake.

 

“Head trauma,” Flemeth informs him. “Took a hit to the noggin just as I was flying in. Lucky it wasn’t a sword through the gut. That was almost you—dagger through the lung. _You’re welcome._ ”

 

He stammers out his thanks, earning him an eye roll from Morrigan, and goes back to staring at nothing in the distance.

 

Maker preserve them. There are only two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, the country is being overrun by the Blight, and _Teyrn Loghain betrayed them._ Is smearing the Wardens’ good name everywhere. Alistair feels rage bubbling up inside him, churning beside the terror and fear. What is he to do? What is there to do?

 

And then she wakes.

 

xxx

 

 

“You can’t possibly mean to desert!” he yells at her.

 

“It’s not deserting if your order is _decimated_!” she yells back. “The order is _gone._ Your precious Duncan is dead.  It’s time for the retirement plan, and my retirement plan is _reclaiming Highever_!”

 

“Is Highever all you care about?!” he shouts. “What about Ferelden? What about the Blight?”

 

“All I know is the greatest general Ferelden has ever had left the wardens to _die_ , and that blackmailing, heartless bastard is dead with them!” she screams back. “I will gather my army and take back my teyrnir, and then I’ll send troops against the Blight. On that you have my word,” she adds.

 

“You swore!” Alistair is so angry he feels tears coming to his eyes. “You swore to fight the Blight!”

 

“And Duncan extorted a promise from a dying man to sacrifice his last child,” she says back mercilessly. “I’ll fight your goddamned Blight. But as a teyrna, not as a warden. I want _nothing_ of this order!”

 

They stand there, glaring at each other. He’s in full plate and weapons, and she’s in a flimsy nightgown and still bandaged up. The only thing she has is Champion of Swords at her side. But if it came to blows, Alistair’s really not sure who would win.

 

Flemeth and Morrigan are just watching the two warriors scream at each other, Morrigan looking hugely entertained. But it’s Flemeth who ends the stalemate.

 

“Loghain supported Howe’s betrayal,” she says, and everything quiets.

 

The Lady Cousland stops and turns to her, breathing heavily.

 

“How do you know this, my lady?” she asks.

 

Flemeth cackles. “Such manners! A true noblewoman, this. But yes, well, as an apostate—” she throws a dirty look at Alistair—“I know many things through my scrying pool. I do take an interest in Ferelden’s affairs, you know.

 

“It’s simple, really. Your brother took an Antivan to wife. Loghain took this as a sign that your family might be getting cozy with foreigners. Come Howe saying Bryce Cousland consorts with Orlesians, and poof! He agrees to Howe’s rebellion.”

 

The Lady Cousland grips the hilt of Champion of Swords, not to draw it but as if for support. “Have you proof, my lady?”

 

“Physical? There’s none to be had, my girl,” Flemeth says, almost fondly. “But go to the towns, listen in the villages. You’ll hear it: they’re in cahoots.”

 

“Then my mission is to kill Loghain and Howe,” the Lady Cousland says.

 

Flemeth cackles again. “You and what army, my dear?

 

“No, no. Turn your priorities around. Defeat the Blight first, and the kingdom will be so thankful they will bring you Howe’s and Loghain’s heads on platters.

 

“Your vengeance will be delayed, but ah, little Cousland, unless things have changed, _Couslands always do their duty_ , don’t they?”

 

xxx

 

Alistair is still furious at the Lady Cousland, and it doesn’t help that she and Morrigan have struck up a fast friendship. It’s warm enough now that they can sleep in the open, and Alistair has to listen to the two murmuring to each other about herbs and venoms, poultices and poisons, and whatever foul things one can get up to with plants.

 

Alistair has no skill at potions or poisons, but it seems noble ladies learn the art, because soon the two are spending evenings by the fire, grinding herbs and chattering away. He swears he even saw Morrigan smile once, and the Lady Cousland smiles often.

 

It grates. He’s only managed to make her smile once, but that Witch of the Wilds does it often!

 

“Jealous?” Morrigan asks one day, as the lady goes ahead to scout out a safe camp. They’re only a day away from Lothering, now. “Have I taken your favorite warden away from you? Oh, but—there’s only two left, isn’t there?”

 

“Shut up, apostate,” he snarls impotently, and stalks away.

 

He’s angry, but it’s hard to remain so when she finds a lamb and exclaims over it, patting its head and admiring the pink ribbon tied around its neck.

 

“Dinner,” Morrigan proposes, but she shakes her head.

 

“The bandits must have stolen it from a child,” she says, referring to the bandits they drove off near Lothering. “We’ll see if we can find its owner among the refugees.”

 

They do, and the lamb is duly handed over along with fifty silvers pressed furtively into the elven father’s hand, as if doing good should be done in secret.

 

xxx

 

For someone who only wanted to fight the Blight because it was in the way of her vengeance, she does a fantastic job of it. Alistair doesn’t regret handing over the reins to her.

 

She drives off Loghain’s lackeys, promising vengeance; kills bandits; clears out deadly spiders. Alistair watches her, and remembers how she didn’t want this life, and aches because even if he’s angry with her, he’s glad she’s with him.

 

He doesn’t regret it, even as she verbally flays a lay sister of the chantry in a way that makes him want to cower in fear.

 

“An _Orlesian_ wants to defend _Ferelden_ against the Blight?” the Lady Cousland says, politely incredulous, and Alistair has to admit, the notion is a little odd. “Wouldn’t you rather—” her smile is razor-sharp, “wait for us to die off and then reclaim your province?”

 

She finishes off with a sweet, sharp smile.

 

The Orlesian lay sister splutters and stammers, which is something that Alistair can sympathize with. Eventually, though, it all comes out: a vision from the Maker, a checkered past that includes being an _excellent_ archer, and an impassioned plea.

 

Alistair never does figure out what the Orlesian lay sister says to convince the Lady Cousland, but eventually she joins them and tells them her name is Leliana. The Lady Cousland regards her with sharp eyes and sharper smile, and Alistair remembers Bryce Cousland fought against Orlesians not thirty years ago.  

 

All in all, it’s hard to stay angry at her. Finally, he can bear it no longer.

 

“I’m sorry I called you a deserter,” he says outright, one night at camp.

 

They hadn’t dared stay in an inn in Lothering, not after some townspeople took it upon themselves to try to kill them for a bounty. Their little band had hit them with the flats of their blades and the pommels of their swords, trying not to kill them, but it had been close for some of them. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

 

She looks up from where she’s been sharpening Champion of Swords.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says after a long moment. “You loved Duncan very much.”

 

“I did,” he says. “He was a good man.”

 

She looks away. “Maybe in peace time,” she says.

 

“What did you mean, when you said he was a blackmailer?”

 

She takes a deep breath, and lays it out for him.

 

A castle under siege. A dead sister-in-law and nephew. A friend knight barring the door even through grievous injuries—and now he understands, a friend knight who wanted to become a Grey Warden. A mother on her knees.

 

And a father, who was told, “Swear your daughter into service, or I won’t save her life.”

 

“I never wanted to be a Grey Warden,” she says, dry-eyed. “That was Ser Gilmore. But I lived, and he—I don’t know. Maybe he died defending the doors.”

 

Alistair feels sick, thinking of the lengths Duncan went to, to recruit this impossible woman. He wishes there’d been another way, any way, other than extorting a promise from the father Lady Cousland loved very much. Ferelden needs wardens, this warden especially, but the cost…

 

Alistair thinks of facing the Blight alone, without her, and he just can’t. He couldn’t. He’d die of fear before the first week. Oh, the battle part he can do, that’s easy, but the leading…

 

They’re the same age, almost, he and the Lady Cousland, but she’s different. She commands.

 

And he thinks again of Cailan and Ailis that night long ago, and he shivers.

 

xxx

 

“Absolutely not,” she says. She is _livid._ When Alistair touches her hand, it’s ice-cold, and her eyes are glittering blue fire.

 

“Why leave him to be eaten by darkspawn? Show him more mercy than that,” Morrigan argues.

 

They are standing a little ways away from a cage in Lothering—a cage holding a giant, scowling qunari. Morrigan, surprisingly, is advocating releasing him, while Lady Cousland is digging her heels in and refusing.

 

“He’s a child-killer!” she says. “I let him free and then what?”

 

“To be caged and eaten by darkspawn—no one deserves that, not even a murderer,” Leliana says in that low, soothing voice of hers. It’s completely the wrong thing to say. The Lady Cousland stiffens even further.

 

“I absolutely will not free him. Free him if _you_ wish, but _I_ shan’t.”

 

“The Maker will credit it unto you as righteousness,” Leliana tries again.

 

“This murderer follows the Qun, sister,” she ripostes. Alistair only notices because he is standing behind her, but she is shaking near-imperceptibly.

 

“You can’t leave him to the darkspawn, my lady,” Alistair says suddenly. He’s been staring at the qunari, and he can’t bear it—giant though he may be, he’s gaunt and his eyes are haunted. “You fed that one deserter once. Why not this one?”

 

“ _He killed a whole family_ ,” she hisses.

 

“Are you not better than that?” he says.

 

“No. No, I am not,” she snarls.

 

Her eyes are sparking blue fire and Alistair wants to say, _Yes, yes you are. You gave a lamb to a little girl. You gave a young boy a last keepsake from his mother. You wear a locket around your neck with your family’s likenesses within…_

 

“You are,” he says. “You can have mercy. You’re better than this.”

 

She throws up her hands and walks away.

 

xxx

 

Later that night he wakes with a start. It’s a Grey Warden thing—due to the taint within, he knows where the Lady Cousland is at all times. He sees her sneak past Leliana and Morrigan, Calenhad at her heels.

 

He can’t follow her. He knows this. She’ll know if he stirs from his bedroll. But he can follow his presence, and he knows she stops just outside the cage where the qunari is being held.

 

She comes back after a while, and he feigns sleep. He feels her pause at his bedroll on the way to hers, and she says,

 

“I told him to thank a man named Alistair. I told him _‘That’s who you owe your life to.’ ”_

“No,” he says, eyes still closed. “He owes you. Ailis Cousland.”

 

He thrills a little, at that forbidden name crossing his lips.

 

Later, in the morning, when they walk into the town to resupply for the last time, he sees it: a single, beautiful, blood-red rose growing on a gnarled old rosebush beside the chantry. Before he can think better of it he’s plucking it, and storing it into his pack, thinking all the while of a blue-eyed, blue-blooded woman with so much anger and yet so much light, still.


	3. Redcliffe 1

The blood soaking through Alistair’s bandages is just about the color of the rose carefully stored in his pack.

 

At the same time, blood’s not quite the color of Redcliffe heraldry, but it _is_ the other thing that occupies his mind.

 

It’s not that Alistair doesn’t want the others to know he’s Maric’s son. Except, well, he doesn’t. Morrigan would mock him for being a fool bastard, Leliana would look at him with sorrowful eyes—or worse, regale him with stories of his father’s exploits—and Lady Cousland…

 

She’d look at him and find him lacking, like everyone else who’s ever known the truth has always found him lacking. She was _friends_ with Cailan. If she knew, all she’d ever see in him are all the ways he isn’t enough.

 

So as they draw ever nearer to Redcliffe, he keeps his mouth shut.

 

And then a man comes running up to them screaming about monsters and the undead. Joy.

 

xxx

 

Bann Teagan and Lady Cousland have a _history_.

 

“Ailis!” Bann Teagan cries out in shock and disbelief as soon as he sees them. He rushes over and holds her hands in his. “Ailis, you survived? But—how? The sack—”

 

“Sheer dumb luck, Teagan,” the lady says. “Well, perhaps some of the maneuvers you taught me last Landsmeet.”

 

 “And is this Calenhad? He’s so big! He’s a proper war dog now!”

 

“Whuff!” Calenhad agrees.

 

Then Bann Teagan turns to the rest of them, and his eyes light up in recognition of Alistair. He barely has a moment to think, _What if he resents me for living when Cailan died_ before he is being embraced warmly and their other companions greeted.

 

But soon the time for reunions is over. The situation is dire. The undead are streaming out of Redcliffe Castle nightly, and the villagers are terrified.

 

It stinks of dark magic, Alistair thinks, and he says so. Surprisingly, Morrigan agrees with him.

 

“But whose, I wonder?” she says.

 

That’s the question, isn’t it.

 

And then night comes, and Alistair gets to swing his sword against the undead instead of darkspawn. Joy.

 

xxx

 

Despite their best efforts, some villagers lie dead when the sun rises, among them the town mayor. It makes the jubilance of their survival, well, a little less jubilant, if Alistair is being honest.

 

Not jubilant at all, for the family members Leliana is speaking to. She goes around to everybody who lost somebody, pressing their hands in between hers and speaking some kind words—generally being her chantry sister self. Morrigan, he notices, regards her with—not suspicion, really, but certainly narrowed eyes, as if she is trying to figure her out.

 

Alistair wishes her luck. Leliana is a contradiction. The woman could shoot through the wings of a fly then apologize to the Maker for killing one of His creations. At the same time she could slice through a bandit, then shrug and say, “I suppose violence is a solution sometimes.”

 

But the Lady Cousland stays by the dead, head bowed as she murmurs a few words. As he draws nearer he makes out some of the low words: apologies, prayers, a fervent wish that she’d done better by them.

 

It’s not about the townspeople. Well, it’s a bit about the townspeople. But Alistair isn’t dumb enough to think that it’s also not a little bit about Highever, lying sacked far, far north of here.

 

Despite it hurting his heart, he leaves her to her grief. He lost an entire order, but he knew them for half a year. (It doesn’t seem like half a year. Duncan…Fa—no, he’s never dared think the word, and he won’t start now, it might make him weep and this is not the time or place.) He wasn’t responsible for the order, not in the way the Lady Cousland was responsible for Highever—and, he guesses, the way she felt responsible for Redcliffe village.

 

It’s she who finds him later, sitting with his calves dipped into Lake Calenhad. Calenhad-the-dog is, as ever, at her heels, panting.

 

“Reminiscing?” she asks. He smiles.

 

“One of the maids at the castle used to tell me I could swim before I could walk,” he says. “That was before they outlawed swimming in the lake.”

 

“Why did they?”

 

“After I went to Templar training, I never came back here. I don’t know,” he says.

 

She sits beside him, and even this is an elegant motion. He hates it, hates the constant reminders that she is better than him, even as he admires all the markers of her status. It just reminds him that he, baseborn as he is, could never—

 

_Forget it_ , he says sternly to himself.

 

“The smell reminds me a little bit of Highever port,” she says. “It’s not really the same, for it’s not saltwater, but water all the same. Fergus and I used to walk down the port and just watch the boats come in.” She smiles ruefully. “Mother despaired of us. ‘Am I raising Couslands or Cous-seas?’ ”

 

Alistair snorts.

 

“It was her own fault really. She was Eleanor Mac Enraig. The Seawolf,” she adds, as if it needed clarification.

 

Eleanor Mac Enraig was a raider of Orlesian warships back during the rebellion, Alistair remembers. Heroes on both sides of the family, it seems.

 

And him—well, his father was a pretty big hero too.

 

Again he doesn’t realize he’s speaking until he has.

 

“Are you and Bann Teagan close?” he asks.

 

She laughs, and Alistair thrills.

 

“You sound like a gossip at a spring salon! He was very amusing company at Landsmeets when I was younger. Fergus and Alfstanna never let me join their games, but one day Teagan saw me sulking and took me out back to teach me swordplay. It was lovely. He’s a good fighter,” she says. “Mother wanted to match me with him, but I was too young then,” she adds, as if it were an afterthought.

 

xxx

 

“The arlessa knows or has something to do with the undead,” Alistair says, as they watch her and Bann Teagan disappear into the castle.

 

He feels unkind saying it, but then Morrigan says something even unkinder.

 

“The manner in which she acted, the way she moved—that woman is a trapped animal,” she opines. “One too _well-bred_ —” she sneers—“to snap or bite, which just makes her all the more pathetic. Animals should fight back.”

 

“She’s an Orlesian ninny,” Lady Cousland says harshly. Leliana flinches, then, when she catches Alistair’s eye, shrugs. It’s true, if unkind, and there’s nothing much she can say to refute it.

 

So they go into the mill, like they were told to. Alistair heaves a sigh. Maker only _knows_ what they’ll find in there.

 


	4. Redcliffe 2

What they find is a blood mage. A _blood mage_!

“He’s evil,” Alistair hisses at the Lady Cousland as they withdraw to confer over whether to release him or not. “He poisoned Arl Eamon, he works for Teyrn Loghain, and _he’s a blood mage_! You can’t trust him!”

“Is this the Templar or the warden, speaking, Alistair?” Morrigan asks archly, while Leliana intones, “We all deserve a second chance.” “And was it not just a scant few days ago you were begging Ailis to save another caged man’s life?”

“I wasn’t begging—that’s not the point,” Alistair says. “He’s why a whole village was under siege by _the undead_.”

“And yet you were willing to free a qunari that killed a family. Tell me, Alistair, where is your threshold for second chances? Bigger than a family, smaller than a village? Or shall we be honest and say ‘tis magic you find unforgivable?” Morrigan needles.

“From what I understand,” the Lady Cousland says slowly, “it was Connor who unleashed the demon, and it was not something Jowan taught him.”

“Who knows with maleficars?” he questions. “He could have been training Connor to be like him!”

“A man desperate to regain his place in the world wouldn’t do that,” the lady says, then claps her hands. “Nevertheless, I’ve decided.” She turns back to the cell. “Ser mage, I unlock your door. You will come with us to the upper echelons of the castle to seek out Isolde and Teagan.”

“A-and fight the undead?” the mage shrinks. Despite himself, Alistair can’t help but feel pity as he looks upon the man: dressed in but torn robes, his face and body a mass of bruises, the man looks pathetic. He also looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, and—Alistair feels his heart clench.

“Yes,” the lady says decidedly, “and fight the undead. You are a mage, so I’m certain you can fire an energy bolt or two. Leliana, would you please give him some bread and cheese.”

Faced with the Lady Cousland’s utter command, the mage really had no choice. He accepts the food Leliana gives him, with a murmur of thanks, and when he is done chewing and swallowing, is given a piece of wood by Morrigan in turn.

He turns it over and over in his hands, surprised.

“Calenhad found it,” Leliana volunteers, smiling at him in a friendly manner. “Morrigan tells us it’s a fairly powerful staff in its own right. Good for firing your energy bolts, no?”

The mage manages a smile. “Yes. It is…good.” He flexes his hand and forms a ball of green energy at the tip of the staff.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alistair warns, readying a holy smite. Morrigan snarls and steps conspicuously away from him.

The green energy forms slowly into a white lily. The mage looks at it with agony on his face, then hands the flower to Leliana. She exclaims in delight, while Alistair scowls.

He does let the smite dissipate, though.

 

xxx

 

The worst thing about fighting the undead is, well—

They’re the undead. Meaning they were once alive. Meaning Alistair has just cut down the kennelmaster, who used to sneak him bits of meat before feeding the mabari, and he is now crossing swords with old Tom, who was a drunk but a fair guard.

Taught him the same trick he’s using just now, the one that trips an opponent so you can point your sword at his throat and say “Yield!”

Except old Tom won’t yield, and Alistair has to look at him as he plunges his swordpoint into the man’s throat.

Old Tom gurgles, and is still.

 _Don’t think about it,_ Alistair tells himself sternly, and follows his leader along the hallways of his youth.

They find and free Valena, the smith’s daughter, which is, well, good. Maybe that old drunk can stop moping now. Leliana hands her a flask of wine and some bread before she leaves. Pinned by several incredulous gazes, she defends herself, “She was weak! Perhaps the wine and bread will help her run faster.”

“Or distract her that she falls and becomes easy pickings for the undead,” Morrigan drawls.

Why, oh why, doesn’t his lady— _the_ lady, rather—just send her off to crawl into a bush and die?

Leliana laughs and pats Morrigan’s bare shoulder, causing more incredulous gazes.

The mage holds his own, too, despite being weak from days without food and, oh yes, the torture. He seems to be strengthening as he battles, actually. Alistair watches suspiciously as energy leeches from a corpse and surrounds the mage’s body. As he watches, the bruises on the mage’s face heal.

“’Tis no more dangerous a magic than I use, Alistair. Have no fear,” Morrigan says to him aside. “Or do you think I will allow harm to come from one of Ailis’s charity cases? When I spend so much time cleaning up your messes?”

“You’ve never cleaned up camp a day in your life,” Alistair accuses, but. Maybe he stops watching the mage so obsessively.

But still. Morrigan. Die.

 

xxx

 

They unlock the courtyard gate, letting Ser Perth and the other knights of Redcliffe enter. Of course, as soon as they do that more undead and oh, a _revenant_ rise up, and in moments they’re battling for their lives again.

“I prefer darkspawn,” he pants to the Lady Cousland as his sword clangs against the revenant’s shield.

“Really?” she asks breathlessly, driving her sword up through the revenant’s throat. It staggers, but parries Alistair’s next hit. “With all the growling, and the smell?”

“The undead smell too,” he points out.

“But the undead don’t smell rotten,” she says, and twists to behead a corpse attempting to slip a dagger between her ribs. “It’s odd really…undead should smell like corpses.”

“With the whole castle full of them for days? They’d never get the smell out of the tapestries, my lady.”

She laughs, and slams the pommel of her sword onto an oncoming corpse’s head. “You never call me by my name, Alistair,” she says, and a spell from Jowan ices over the corpse, leaving it struggling on the ground. “Why is that?”

“I, uh—” Alistair is utterly discombobulated. Then the revenant stumbles, and he sees his chance. He cleaves its head from its body.

 _Goodbye and good riddance,_ he thinks viciously.

“Alistair?”

He looks at her, lovely Lady Cousland with her braid coming undone, steel-blue eyes looking at him inquiringly. “I suppose…you never said I could,” he says slowly.

Then another wave of corpses come, and they are much too busy fighting to speak.

 

xxx

 

They enter the main hall with the knights, and—and—

 Alistair feels like throwing up. Bann Teagan being made a toy is bad enough, but Connor being a plaything for a demon is even worse. He watches with horrified eyes as Connor surveys the lot of them, no sign of the boy within his grey eyes.

“I came to see Arl Eamon,” the Lady Cousland says composedly, in response to the question of her presence there.

“So you’re a concerned well-wisher!” Connor says in a voice too deep for him. “Then you really didn’t have to kill all my soldiers.”

“I really did,” the Lady Cousland says. “They were endangering your arling, _your_ responsibility, Connor.”

“It’s not Connor!” Lady Isolde bursts out hysterically. “That’s not Connor, that’s not my baby, don’t refer to him as if—”

“Quiet, Mother!” Connor snaps. Then suddenly, the boy staggers.

“Mother?” he says in a tiny, childlike voice. “Mother, where am I? What’s happening?”

“Oh thank the Maker. Connor!” Lady Isolde rushes toward him, throwing her arms around him, heedless of Lady Cousland’s cry of, “Don’t! It could be a trick!” “Connor, baby, stay this time, stay!”

“Jowan? Jowan, help me!” Connor cries out, seeing his tutor standing there with them. “How do I make her leave?”

Jowan steps forward, hands outstretched. “Stay calm, Connor,” he soothes. “Try to clear your mind. A stronger mind may have more chance of keeping a demon at bay—”

“You! You did this to Connor!” Lady Isolde cries out hysterically. “Stay away from him! Stay away from my baby!”

“And then what do I do?” Connor asks urgently. “Hurry, I can feel her coming back! Jowan please, Jowan help me!”

He begins to struggle against his mother’s embrace, trying to reach his tutor. Then all of a sudden he goes perfectly still.

“ _Such_ a fighter,” Connor purrs, “but when will he realize I only let him out when I want to? No one tells _me_ what to do.”

“Noooo-one tells him what to do!” Bann Teagan echoes.

“Quiet, uncle!” Connor snaps, and pushes his mother’s arms roughly away. “Get away from me, fool woman!”

“This is horrible,” Leliana says in an undertone. Mistress of understatement, she is. “Is there no way we can help?”

“An exorcism?” Ser Perth attempts. He grips his sword tightly, fingertips turning white. “But young Lord Connor, a demon…it would be a mercy to…”

“I don’t think an exorcism could help,” Alistair says doubtfully. “I mean, I was never a full Templar, but the demon’s hold is too strong. Look at him.”

And indeed, the demon is in full control again, insulting Lady Isolde’s looks and extolling Lady Cousland’s. “Half your age and pretty, too!” he sneers to his mother. “I’m surprised you don’t have her executed in a fit of jealousy.”

“Connor…” Lady Isolde says weakly, but can do nothing aside from that.

And, of course, moments later they’re thrown into a fight.

“Nonlethal!” the Lady Cousland cries. “They’re not dead yet, so maybe we can break them free of the demon’s hold!”

“Must we?” Morrigan sulks.

“We must,” the Lady Cousland says cheekily. She leaps forward and engages Bann Teagan into battle.

“Maybe all we need is to kill the demon,” Alistair mutters to no one in particular, striking the flat of his blade against the guard he is fighting. “But how do we kill it without killing Connor?”

Leliana whizzes by, daggers at the ready—she’s probably deemed her arrows too deadly for this battle. “It does seem like violence is the solution most of the time,” she agrees sadly.

Jowan, near the back of the room, overhears them. “It’s possible,” he says, freezing an opponent up to his torso. Morrigan casts a sleep spell on the frozen man.  “Using a ritual, we can travel to the Fade and kill the demon there, like in the Harrowing for Circle mages.”

“And like the Tevinter magisters did,” Leliana observes warily.

“We go to kill a demon, Leliana, not the Maker,” Alistair points out. “Why don’t we do that, Jowan?”

“Isn’t the demon in Connor already?” the Lady Cousland asks. It’s odd to watch the deadly woman in nonlethal battle, even though Alistair knows she won last year’s tournament in Denerim. Seeing her struggle with Bann Teagan, Jowan and Morrigan rush forward, spells at the ready. “Explain to me how we kill the demon without killing Connor.”

 “It approached him in his dreams,” Jowan explains, encasing Bann Teagan’s feet in ice. The bann tugs his feet free and spins to avoid the pommel aimed at his head. “If we enter the Fade and kill the demon there, Connor will be freed from its control.”

“Sounds perfect,” the Lady Cousland says. “What’s the catch?”

“It requires,” Jowan pants, “a great deal of magical power—lyrium, really. And I doubt the village Templars have that much lyrium in store. No one but the Circle does.”

“But Kinloch Hold is days away,” Leliana says. “How will we get there and back before the undead attack once more?”

One of Jowan’s ice attacks holds, and Morrigan swiftly puts the bann to sleep. The Lady Cousland sheathes her blade.

“Once he wakes,” she nods to the bann, “we will discuss our options.”

 

xxx

 

In the midst of the battle, Connor ran off, leaving his mother on the dais of the main hall. The woman remained there for the entirety of the battle, doing nothing but sobbing as battle raged under her.

Alistair catches Lady Cousland’s face twist, and he thinks his might be twisting, too. Morrigan’s observation comes back to him: a trapped animal that won’t fight back. A trapped animal that doesn’t know it _can_ fight back.

The arlessa was oh so good at tormenting a small boy, but hadn’t the strength to do the right thing and send her son to the Circle for training. And now her village was ravaged and her son was demon-possessed. Not for the first time Alistair rues the day an “Orlesian ninny” fell for the arl of Redcliffe, and had that love reciprocated.

They discuss their options, which boils down to:

“We can’t go to the Circle,” the Lady Cousland says. “The undead could attack again tonight. We need this settled before sundown, else Redcliffe is lost.”

“You can’t mean to kill my baby!” the arlessa shrieks. She curls in on herself, sobbing hysterically. “You can’t mean to kill a small boy!”

“Connor is my nephew, and I am loathe to lose another so soon after the first,” Bann Teagan says slowly. “But he is…an abomination. Death…would be a mercy. It would send him to the Maker’s side.”

“Teagan!” Lady Isolde cries out in utter betrayal.

“Think of your _arling_ , not just of your son,” Lady Cousland says to Lady Isolde, harshly. “You are an arlessa. You have a _responsibility_!”

“You—you know nothing of responsibility!” Lady Isolde cries.

Alistair winces. Before anyone can say anything, he says, “Actually, my lady…this is Teyrna Ailis Cousland of Highever.” He places a slight emphasis on _Teyrna,_ as if to tell the Lady Isolde, “Actually, she’s responsible for far more than you.”

Lady Isolde is stricken,  but regains herself. “Then you must understand! Didn’t your brother have a son? Wouldn’t you do _anything_ to save your nephew?”

The Lady Cousland snarls wordlessly, and advances on Lady Isolde, hand on Champion of Swords. “You foul, loathsome—” she starts.

Alistair steps forward between the two women, facing her. “My lady,” he begins.

She snarls at him. Daringly, he takes her hand.

“Ailis,” he says. “Please.”

“You go too far, Isolde,” Bann Teagan says to his sister-in-law, frowning. “Surely you do not mean to sacrifice everyone in Redcliffe for the sake of an abomination?”

“He is not an abomination! He is not always the demon you saw!” Lady Isolde sobs. Mutely, Leliana hands her a handkerchief. “You saw it, sometimes he breaks free, sometimes he—”

“Sometimes the demon loosens its hold in order to taunt you, you mean,” Morrigan drawls. “You are blind, woman. The entirety of your husband’s lands would be better off if you sent your son to the Circle in the beginning. And you see nothing, blame everyone but yourself!

“Nevertheless,” she says, gliding forward, “there is a solution, and Jowan knows it.”

“J-Jowan?” Lady Isolde whispers, eyes glistening with tears. “You know something? You can solve this? Why didn’t you say something sooner?!”

Jowan’s head is bowed. “There is another way to enter the Fade without the use of lyrium,” he says softly. “And that is…through blood magic.”

He looks up, as if he is willing himself to be strong. His eyes lock upon Lady Isolde’s. “But the blood required…it asks a lot from a sacrifice. All of it, in fact. If someone is to step into the Fade to save Connor, someone else has to die to power the ritual.”

 


	5. Redcliffe 3

“Absolutely not,” Alistair bursts out. “That is blood magic! My lady—”

Lady Isolde speaks over him.

“You mean to say, through a death you can kill the demon without killing my boy?”

Jowan nods miserably.

She straightens. In the moment before she speaks, Alistair knows what she is about to say, and he is both horrified and awed by the utter calmness and regality with which she says it.

“Then I will do it,” she says. “It is my fault Connor is this way. I will sacrifice his life to save his.”

“Isolde…” Bann Teagan is at a loss for words. “How will I explain to Brother what has occurred? His son, possessed, his arling, destroyed, his wife, murdered—”

“Sacrificed,” Lady Isolde corrects, “or ‘gone willingly.’ “ She turns to Jowan. “Tell me, what else does this ritual consist of?”

“It is not quite so easy, my lady,” Jowan says. “Only a mage may enter the Fade and remain conscious to do battle with the demon. I cannot go, as I am doing the ritual. And…”

And the only other mage is Morrigan, Jowan does not say. He does not need to. From the look dawning upon Lady Isolde’s face, she knows it.

And Morrigan knows it too, if the haughty look upon her face is any indication. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again with a clack as Lady Isolde turns and without hesitation sinks to her knees.

“Please, lady mage,” Lady Isolde says, face turned to the floor. Alistair’s throat tightens. “Will you do me this one boon? All you ask of me, as long as it is in my power to provide, I will give, so long as you save my son.”

Morrigan’s face, if it is possible, grows haughtier.

“Well, well. To have a noblewoman groveling at my feet,” she begins. The Lady Cousland, however, takes her hand to stop her.

“Morrigan, may we speak a moment?”

She and Morrigan withdraw, leaving the rest of them: Alistair, Leliana, Jowan, Bann Teagan, and the knights. Lady Isolde is still on her knees.

Alistair goes to help her up, and she takes his hand. But when she sees who he is, her face hardens.

“Peace, my lady,” Alistair says. “I do not come to—I don’t know what you think, but I’m not going to do it. I mean no harm to you or Connor.”

The Lady Isolde’s grip slackens, then she sighs.

“You were trained as a Templar, were you not? Tell me: will the Circle be kind to my son?”

“I was never a full Templar,” Alistair says. “But…Kinloch Hold is not Kirkwall’s Gallows. I do not think they will harm him.”

“Even a boy who’s already made deals with a demon?” Lady Isolde says bitterly. “Your mage companion is correct. I should never have hidden Connor. Everything has stemmed from my own selfishness.”

Alistair startles at the recrimination falling from her lips. Bann Teagan steps forward to lay a hand on her shoulder.

“You did not know, Isolde,” he says thickly. “No one could have known.”

“Had I done the right thing, this would never have happened,” Lady Isolde says. “Your teyrna Cousland, Alistair…will she be able to convince the lady mage?”

“I’m sure she will do her best,” he murmurs. Then he sees Lady Cousland signaling to him, Leliana, and Jowan. “Excuse me, my lady.”

The five of them gather in the anteroom. Lady Cousland’s face is very grim.

“Morrigan has informed me of what happens in the Fade,” she begins. “A demon could take over her body, which would cause even greater problems for us; Morrigan is far more magically powerful than a small boy. I don’t think we could fight off a Morrigan-abomination.”

“Alistair might,” Leliana says doubtfully. Lady Cousland inclines her head.

“True, which means we need Alistair on standby to ensure nothing…untoward happens.” Her mouth twists. “But I’d rather Alistair not kill Morrigan, if that is all right.”

“Pity,” Alistiar mutters. Morrigan says, “As if he could.”

“But Ailis, are we truly going to allow Lady Isolde to be killed?” Leliana says. “Jowan, are you certain this is the only way?”

“Tis the only way, Leliana,” Morrigan says quellingly. “Anything else and we risk Redcliffe being overrun once more. T’would be the lives of many, for certain gone, in exchange for one.” Bare shoulders shrug. “It seems to me a fair deal.”

Jowan’s hands are twisting and untwisting.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says. “This is deep, dark magic. I should be killed for this. But I only want to make things right.” He turns beseeching grey eyes upon them. “Will this make things right?”

It is the Lady Cousland who murmurs the harsh truth. “I don’t know, Jowan.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “But it would kill a demon and save Connor. And Redcliffe. Surely that is a step forward.”

Leliana looks conflicted, but says nothing. Perhaps, Alistair thinks, she is also weighing the situation, and finding that, distressingly, everything points to this being the only possible solution.

The rest is done in a blur. Alistair feels as if he is in a dream: the ritual is set up, Lady Isolde settled on the dais…

“This is ugly,” one of the knights says. “Should we not slay the man for even daring to think of slaying the arlessa?”

“But it’s to save young Lord Connor,” another knight says.

Ser Perth shakes his head helplessly.

“Ugly work.”

Lady Cousland stands by Morrigan, murmuring to her softly. Leliana goes to her as well.

“My friend, be safe,” Leliana says to Morrigan. The witch startles.

“Myself, your friend? And when did this momentous occasion occur?” she questions. Leliana laughs softly.

“You are a ridiculous person, Morrigan,” she informs the witch.

Alistair finds himself standing by Jowan, who is trembling softly. He doesn’t know what to say, not really, so instead he places one gauntleted hand on the man’s shoulder—a gesture of comfort, he notices, that is becoming common around their merry band nowadays.

“You don’t trust me,” Jowan says suddenly.

Alistair looks at him.

“I was trained as a Templar,” he says. “I don’t trust _any_ blood mage. But Connor is…”

He thinks of the small, wrinkly infant that had driven the arlessa to destroy his life. He thinks of Arl Eamon sneaking the child out to the kennels for Alistair to hold. He thinks of a small golem doll tucked in next to a sleeping baby before he left for Templar training.

“…Connor is like my brother,” he finishes. “And if you can save him…that will be good. Better than good. Fantastic.”

The Lady Isolde lies upon the dais, but she hears them and rises up. Alistair is arrested by the look in her eyes—disdainful and yet soft, at the same time.

“Connor is not your brother,” she states. Alistair bows his head. “No, he is not, and I am sorry I ever thought otherwise. Nevertheless…”

She pauses, then starts again.

“Nevertheless, I would ask of you to care for him, as you would a true brother.”

Alistair thinks of his own true brother, and how he had not been able to care for the man. He clears this throat, and nods.

“It will be done, my lady.”

The last few bits of the ritual are arranged, and Morrigan stands by the prone Lady Isolde, a cushion positioned to catch her should she fall. Lady Isolde says to Morrigan, “My eternal gratitude, madame.” It is hard to understand her through the thickness of her voice. “Maker go with you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Morrigan ripostes. “That would be rather distracting.”

Then the ritual is underway.

The Lady Isolde dies in a spray of blood, and Alistair forces himself not to look away. From the corner of his eye, he sees Morrigan slump onto a cushion. But most of his vision is taken up by a noblewoman’s writhing and twisting, as Jowan wrings every drop of energy from her body in order to send Morrigan into the Fade.

Lady Cousland, beside him, is stone-faced. But when all the contortions are over, she rushes to Lady Isolde’s side and closes the woman’s eyes.

“Go to the Maker’s side, brave mother,” she whispers. “Brave, strong, worthy mother.”

Alistiar stoops to help her up, and Leliana leads them to a bench. Jowan walks over to them, swaying.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly, eyes downcast.

“Don’t be,” Lady Cousland says. “She did it for her son. My sister-in-law…my sister-in-law died protecting her son, too. And my mother died protecting my father. I’d like to be…as brave as they.”

“You are,” Alistair says. “I mean. You took the Joining, for one thing. That takes guts.”

“Darkspawn guts,” she jokes. Alistair winces.

“You had to remind me.”

Jowan says, “My mother thought I was an abomination for having magic. I suppose she was right.”

“Don’t,” Leliana says fiercely. “You are trying to atone for your sins. I may not understand the methods you use, nor entirely agree…but the Maker sees your heart. If you are truly repentant, He will know and credit it unto you as righteousness.”

Jowan quirks a smile. “Chantry girls,” he says. “So fierce in their beliefs.”

“Oh? You’ve known other Chantry girls?”

A shadow crosses over his face. “One,” Jowan says.

They lapse into silence, as together they wait for Morrigan to succeed.

Of course she does, and as she wakes, Connor comes stumbling into the hall, rubbing his eyes.

“Mother?” he queries. Lady Cousland runs to him and catches him up, turning so he does not see his mother’s corpse.

“Hush, Connor,” she says. He begins to struggle, not recognizing her. “Calm yourself. I am a friend. No, don’t look—!”

But he has squirmed out of her arms, and with a horrified cry he rushes to his mother.

“Mother? Mother!” he sobs, shaking her. “Mother, please wake! Mother!”

Morrigan hits him with a sleep spell.

“What?” she says to all the incredulous gazes sent her way. “If he had summoned another demon to perform necromancy, we would be short a willing sacrifice.”

Connor is put to bed, and they all convene in the great hall once more.

“Jowan,” Bann Teagan begins. He looks pained. “I must admit, I know not what to do with you. You poisoned my brother, driving Connor to madness. But you also helped us to free him. I do not know if the scales are even.”

Jowan’s head is bowed. “I know not either, my lord.”

“What say you?” Bann Teagan appeals to Lady Cousland. “What shall we do with him, my lady?”

Lady Cousland seems to be thinking of something very deeply. She holds something small in her palm, and her thumb rubs across it as she speaks.

“Jowan is attempting to redeem himself,” she says, “and I think it would hamper his atonement if he stays in prison. But I doubt you will allow him to simply go free, Teagan.”

“I would not,” he confirms.

She unfurls her palm, and shows it to them. Alistair’s breath catches, realizing what she means to do.

“Then let us have him,” she says, the vial of the Warden’s Oath—a few drops of the Joining—sparkling in her palm. “Let him join the Grey Wardens.”


	6. Redcliffe 4

“Me, a Grey Warden?” Jowan splutters. “But that means being a battlemage, doesn’t it?”

“And killing darkspawn,” Lady Cousland confirms. “Mayhap some other things too, like the undead, which you’ve already proven to have skill at.”

“I thought I’d just…stay in prison,” Jowan says softly. “Or go the Circle and—and—”

“But that’s the easy way out,” Morrigan says derisively. “Poor little Circle mage. Free of his shackles and already longing for his cage. Foolish! You do not take the opportunity before you!”

“Morrigan,” Leliana chides. “I’m sorry, Jowan, she gets like this sometimes.” Morrigan lets out an outraged cry. “Is there something you don’t like about becoming a Grey Warden?”

“I—I—”

“It is because he is afraid, Leliana,” Morrigan says. “It is because becoming a Warden means _living,_ and all Circle mages have ever known is how to exist. Eke out a miserable existence in their phallic tower. But as a Warden—nay, even a free mage! It would mean battling, casting, doing more, _being_ more than what the Chantry tells you! And poor little Circle mage cannot handle that.”

“What is she _doing_?” Alistair hisses to Lady Cousland. She has an admiring look on her face.

“Helping,” she whispers back. Alistair looks at her doubtfully.

“Really?”

“Yes. Now hush.”

Leliana says, “’Tis dangerous to live as we do. We sleep outside—it is good it is summer!—we run into all sorts of animals, Calenhad chews shoes…it may not be the right life for Jowan.”

“And the darkspawn,” Alistair feels the need to interject. Because hello, Grey Wardenhood. “And archdemon-killing. Juuuust in case you forgot.”

Morrigan ignores him. “The right life for Jowan is a sedate life as a painfully average mage of the Circle, dabbling in blood magicks because it would make him special, and dying to the Templars because of it. The order offers him _more._ And _more_ terrifies him. More requires him to live, not just give up.”

She turns her dark head dismissively. “And we know Jowan was about ready to die for his honor just a few moments ago.”

Jowan’s head is downturned, and he is fiddling with the staff that looks like a piece of wood once again. “I—I don’t want to give up,” he says, near-inaudibly.

“I don’t want to give up,” he says, more loudly. “I want to—I want to—“

“What do you want, Jowan?” Lady Cousland says softly.

“I want to live.” He clears this throat and says, “I want to be a Grey Warden.”

Silence falls for a moment, before Leliana claps her hands. “Well then! Let us get on with it.” She tilts her head. “How…do we get on with it?”

“Stop one moment,” Alistair says. He knows he is going to reveal Warden secrets, but he doesn’t really care. Jowan doesn’t deserve to go into the Joining not knowing, not after what he just said. “If Jowan wants to live, becoming a Grey Warden is not the best option. The Joining can be fatal.”

“The Joining?” Bann Teagan asks. Alistair had forgotten he was even in the room.

Lady Cousland throws Alistair a questioning look, which he returns with raised eyebrows and a tilt of the head. She shakes her head, inclining her head towards him. He shrugs, and she opens her arms wide.

As he turns, he catches Leliana’s amused smile.

“The Joining is the ritual we undergo in order to gain our…I guess powers, you could call it,” Alistair says. “And…it’s not exactly the healthiest ritual, you understand. I can’t say more, but…”

“Are you saying,” Bann Teagan says, “that you are asking me to give a blood mage, the man who poisoned my brother, but saved my nephew, the chance to undergo a ritual that may or may not kill him?”

Alistair nods.

“What is the percentage of people who survive this ritual?”

Alistair looks at Lady Cousland. Lady Cousland looks at Alistair.

“Two of us took our Joining,” Lady Cousland finally says. “I was the one who lived.”

“There were three, at mine,” Alistair says. “Two of us survived.”

“Then it is fairly even,” Bann Teagan muses. He turns hard eyes onto Jowan. “Jowan. I asked you if the scales were even. You said you didn’t know.”

Jowan’s face is white. “I still do not, my lord.”

“Take the Joining,” Bann Teagan orders. “It is up to the Maker whether you survive or not. If you do, then you were meant to redeem yourself. If you don’t…then it is blood payment for what you have done to my family.”

Jowan nods mutely. Alistair wants to whistle, and say, “That’s cold.” But he settles for looking at his companions. Morrigan looks absolutely delighted, the witch. Leliana is biting her lip. The Lady Cousland has her face turned away from all of them.

“A moment with you, Alistair, if you please?” she asks a beat later. Alistair, surprised, acquiesces.

They withdraw to the anteroom, where they stand in silence for a moment. Then Lady Cousland speaks.

“I had thought…to not tell Jowan about the fatal part of the Joining,” she says. “I thought...I don’t know what I thought. As Teagan did. That if he survives, it was meant to be. And if he does not, then it was repayment. But I wanted him to drink the blood _not knowing._ ”

“But that isn’t fair, my lady,” Alistair objects. “He just said he wanted to live. He’s been through so much...I thought he deserved to know what he was getting into.”

“Did Duncan tell me what I was getting into? Daveth? Jory?” Lady Cousland asks him bitterly. “Did you know, when you took the Joining?”

Alistair shakes his head.

“But we are the only two Wardens left in Ferelden, my lady,” he says. “And, well…” He shrugs helplessly. He could not say _We should be better than the old Wardens,_ because that felt disrespectful to the dead. But judging from Lady Cousland’s understanding eyes, she already knew.

“It seems,” she murmurs, “that you are ever teaching me to be a better person.”

Alistair flushes.

 “On to business, then. Will the blood in my Oath be sufficient, do you think?” she asks him. “It hasn’t dried up, but should we…dilute it? Add water?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair says helplessly. “I was a junior member of the order. But maybe…let’s not mess with the recipe. Or should I add mine too?”

“How much did you drink?” she asks.

“A sip,” he says honestly. “And it was the foulest sip I’ve ever had.”

“I know. Ugh,” she says. “Was it about the size of our Oaths, do you think?”

He scrutinizes the Oath she holds up before him. The dark blood in the crystal vial shimmers, reminding him of that night in Ostagar, when Daveth had choked and Jory had—

“How much did _you_ drink, my lady?” he asks.

She looks away. “I drained the chalice,” she says.

“Wow. Thirsty?”

“No,” she says softly. “After Daveth, I hoped it would…”

_Kill me_ , she doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to. Alistair well remembers the angry, resentful Lady Cousland, just weeks ago. She laughs now, smiles often, but Lady Cousland _grieves._

Alistair steps forward. He cannot help it. He catches her hands in his own and presses them.

“My lady,” he says softly, “you are the one bright spot out of all the darkness here. Please know that.”

She smiles at him wanly.

“You were the one person who reminded me what it was like to laugh,” she says. “Alistair. Please call me Ailis.”

Ailis. He tastes it on his tongue, opens his mouth and pushes air out, ending it in a hiss. Ailis.

“My lady,” he says, smiling. “My lady Ailis.”

“Your lady, hmm?” she teases. Alistair splutters and blushes, and they return to the main hall.

Leliana meets them at the door. Her voice is soft as she says, “Bann Teagan wishes to tell you that he will meet you once the…once the Joining is over. For better or for ill, he says.”

So the bann cannot watch Jowan undergo the test. Fair enough, Alistair thinks. He was going to ask them to leave the room anyway. He may have revealed Warden secrets, but some things are sacred.

“How is Jowan?” Ailis asks Leliana.

“He is ready,” Leliana says. “I…We spoke some of the Chant of Light together. It comforted him, at least.”

“And deeply annoyed Morrigan, I’m certain,” Ailis says. “Well. Shall we?”

They ask the non-Wardens to leave the room, so in the end it is Alistair and Ailis standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Jowan, who is trembling.

Ailis places a comforting hand on Jowan’s shoulder, but says nothing. He trembles harder, then steadies.

“We speak only a few words, but these are the words spoken, they say, from the first Joining,” Alistair begins. The words echo in his head, echoes from his own and Ailis’s Joining. Duncan had spoken at both.

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.” He is surprised to hear Ailis speaking along, though he supposes the words are seared into her mind as they are in his. “Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish,” he pauses, and places a hand on Jowan’s shoulder as well, “know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we…will join you.”

They make an odd picture, he imagines, two people in full armor standing with hands on a skinny mage’s shoulders. But they stand together for a moment, all three of them, and they just breathe.

“From this moment forth, Jowan, you are a Grey Warden,” Ailis says. She lets go of Jowan’s shoulder to remove her Warden’s Oath, and uncork the vial. She offers it to him.

Alistair has a moment of panic, wondering what they would do should Jowan refuse the Joining as Jory did. But Jowan regards the vial for a mere moment, then takes it. He inhales deeply, then brings it to his lips.

He tips it back…his throat bobs…he staggers and lets out an agonized cry—

He falls to the floor in a heap of robes. He does not get up again.

“Is he—”

Alistair kneels and checks his wrist for a pulse.

Nothing.

And then…a beat. And then another, and another. He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“He lives, my la—Ailis,” he says. Ailis exhales. “We should move him, ah—”

He looks around, realizing the only place to put Jowan on would be the dais on which Lady Isolde had died. Um. Maybe not.

Ailis has already flitted to the door and called everyone back. Leliana runs to Jowan’s side, while Morrigan and Bann Teagan move more slowly.

“Well done, Morrigan,” Alistair hears Ailis murmur to the witch.

“Who, me?” Morrigan says, catlike eyes slitting in pleasure.

 

xxx

 

Jowan wakes, and when he does Alistair and Ailis are there to greet him.

His eyes flutter open, and Alistair says, “Brother. Welcome.”

“Theron? Alindra?” he asks. Then he shakes his head and says, “Oh. My lady, Alistair.”

“My lady Alistair?” Alistair jokes. “I know I’m beautiful, but…”

“Hush,” Ailis chides. “Welcome back. What did you see?”

“A dragon,” he murmurs. “A sobbing darkspawn. A broken mirror.”

The two senior wardens trade questioning looks.

“Can darkspawn even cry?” Alistair voices. Then: “Anyway! Are you feeling all right? We must speak on what our next step will be.”

“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Jowan says. He wobbles but does eventually stand, and they make their way to the arl’s bedroom.

Arl Eamon is stable, they are told, but not improving. And the one thing they can think of to cure him is:

“The Urn of Sacred Ashes?!” Alistair blurts out. “Are you _mad_?”

“Chasing after an impossibility,” Morrigan says, inspecting her nails. “Why bother? There is an heir to the arling, is there not?” She inclines her head to Bann Teagan.

“Morrigan!” Leliana says, genuinely shocked. “You cannot possibly advocate letting a man die!” She stops for a moment, and amends, “Saying that in front of the man’s brother!”

“What about magic?” Ailis asks Bann Teagan. “I mean…surely you see the impossibility of this, Teagan. It’s a myth! Don’t we have other ways to save Eamon? What about—Jowan, what was the poison you used?”

Jowan startles. “I—I used something given to me by Teyrn Loghain,” he answers. “I don’t know what it was, really.”

“What did it look like? Where did it come from?”

Jowan furrows his brow. “It was blue,” he offers, “and watery. I added it to the arl’s wine.”

“They have washed it since, but let us seek out Eamon’s goblet anyway,” Bann Teagan says. He calls for a maid and issues the instructions, and she hurries from the room.

“Regarding magic, it has been tried, and the mage left saying he had done all he could for Eamon. Perhaps the demon may have helped in some way…I will send to the Circle of Magi for another healer. But Brother funded the research of a scholar named Genitivi—” Leliana gives a cry of recognition “—who lives in Denerim. He was studying the inscriptions on Andraste’s Birth Rock, and as far as I know they tell of where Andraste may have been interred. I know Isolde sent out knights to seek him, and they failed, but still…”

It’s impossible, and Alistair wants to say so. It’s far more likely the mage from the Circle will be able to heal the arl. Still, Ailis nods and says, “We will at least seek out this Genitivi, and send a messenger to tell of what we have found.”

“Ask for a mage named Mahariel,” Jowan says suddenly. “He is…a very talented healer. A far better mage than me, really.”

Bann Teagan nods, but doesn’t speak to Jowan further than that. The company leaves to prepare for their quest to Denerim.

“Tis pointless,” Alistair hears Morrigan say to Leliana, and he cannot bring himself to disagree.


	7. Winter's Breath

“Eleanor Mac Enraig?!” a woman in chainmail and a truly impressive helm gasps, as Ailis, Alistair, and the rest of their merry band plunge into battle. Battle cries rent the air as the bannorn’s forces clash with Loghain’s on the plains of Winter’s Breath. The ground is muddy with blood and Alistair has to leap over strewn bodies, as he avoids a sword that would have slashed his gut open.

Leliana’s and other archers’ arrows fly over his head and Morrigan and Jowan’s spells fire past him as he and Ailis fight shoulder to shoulder, slashing at their foes. Ailis slams the pommel of Champion of Swords onto an oncoming man’s head, and the woman in chainmail swiftly ends his life.

“Bann Grainne, I believe?” Ailis greets. “I’m Ailis Cousland, and these are—” she ducks a dagger swung at her face “—my companions.” She kicks out, and the dagger wielder stumbles and is cut down. “The one with the sword and shield—” she ducks again “—is Alistair, the mages are—” she slashes downward with her sword, opening a gash on the face of a foe “—Morrigan and Jowan, and the archer is Leliana.”

“Pleased to—ugh! Meet you,” Bann Grainne says as cordially as one can, when slitting a man’s throat. “I’d love to stay and chat, but there are Loghain’s men that need slaughtering.”

“Agreed,” Alistair growls, and rams his shield against another man, one with a dragon rampant on his shield.

He’ll take great pleasure in slaughtering Loghain’s forces, until the moment he reaches the man himself.

 

xxx

 

They were cutting through the bannorn for a quicker way to Denerim when Morrigan, in raven form, flutters down next to Leliana, transforms, and says, “That way is blocked.”

“Why?” Leliana queries.

Morrigan ignores her. “I suggest we follow the Imperial Highway instead.”

“But that’s hours away,” Jowan not-quite-whines. “What is the matter?”

“There is a battle going on ahead, a great one,” Morrigan says. “About a thousand men afield, all told. We would be better served avoiding it if we are to make good time to Denerim.”

“A battle?” Ailis says. Her eyes grow icy. “Morrigan, is this a civil war skirmish? Was there a bear on yellow and white afield?”

Alistair has to process the mental image of an actual, literal bear—a Morrigan-bear—before realizing she means banners. And there is only one banner that could make Ailis’s eyes grow icy like that.

“And the royal mabari,” Alistair adds urgently. “Were the royal mabari on the field? Or—or—” He grapples to remember. “A dragon rampant?”

Calenhad cocks his head.

Morrigan sniffs and holds her head up. “And pray tell how was I supposed to note these? I flew high above.”

“Ravens have excellent eyesight,” Alistair answers. “You’re hiding something. Who’s fighting? _Tell us.”_

Their resident apostate—oh wait, they have two of those now. The witch of the wilds then—sighs heavily, as if unbelievably put-upon. “Very well. I did indeed see a dragon rampant.”

“ **Loghain**.”

“My, my, it appears Calenhad has found a match in growling,” Morrigan mocks.

“We go to the battle,” Alistair says.

“Alistair,” Leliana begins.

“No, Leliana,” Alistair says. “ _We go to the battle._ ”

“Loghain may not even be there!”

“Oh, he’ll be there,” he says. “And even if he isn’t…”

He’ll take Loghain’s men. He’ll take them to the sword.

_For the Grey Wardens._

“ ‘Tis most unwise,” Morrigan says. “If you were to lose and be captured, why, that’s the Blight won for the darkspawn. _I_ am not fool enough to think Ailis would not follow you in your quest for vengeance.”

“Morrigan,” Ailis says warningly. “How far to the battle?”

His heart would warm at Ailis’s support, if he weren’t so chilled to the bone, thinking of Loghain on the field and a thousand men clashing. A thousand men, ten thousand men, wouldn’t stop Alistair from finding Loghain and his sword Oathkeeper from tasting his blood. He would avenge Duncan, and his br—King Cailan, and all those who died at Ostagar.

Jowan starts ripping cloth from his already torn robes, wrapping it around his face so only his eyes are visible.

“What are you doing?” Leliana asks. Jowan ties a knot before looking at her.

“Well,” he says reasonably, “if I’m to battle Teyrn Loghain’s men, it’s better they don’t recognize me as the, as the b-blood mage they captured, right?”

“Oh,” Alistair says, stricken. He hadn’t thought about Jowan’s fugitive status. “Jowan, you don’t have to—none of you have to—”

He looks around helplessly, seeing Leliana checking her bow and Jowan tightening the knots on his face. Morrigan looks at him, annoyed, but doesn’t say anything else. Ailis is looking at him, gaze steady.

“Did you expect us to stay behind while you and Ailis went ahead?” Leliana asks, bowstring giving a satisfying twang.

“You two would break your fool necks without us—me,” Morrigan sniffs.

xxx

 

The battle rages on until afternoon, when a horn sounds from Loghain’s side of the field. “Retreat!” sounds through the plains. “Retreat!”

The bannorn’s army cheers as Loghain’s men stumble backward, running away from their enemies. Archers fire upon the fleeing men, and a few fall forward.

 “You saved us the battle,” Bann Grainne says a few hours later. The bannorn’s army sit in camp, fires kindled and dinners cooking. “Damned impressive swordwork, you two.” She nods to Ailis and Alistair. She’s taken off her helm, and her shock-white hair is bright in the firelight. “Especially you, young man. You ever considered learning how to be a berserker?”

“Isn’t that a dwarven specialty?” Alistair asks.

“Started out as such. Now and then you’ll find a non-dwarf practicing it, though.” She grins brightly. “Myself included.”

She eyes Jowan and Morrigan, who sit with Leliana a little further from them. “Those two aren’t Circle mages, are they?”

“No, they’re Grey Wardens,” Ailis says, bending the truth a little. Bann Grainne’s brown eyes flicker.

“Indeed? And that king-killer would have us believe they all died at Ostagar. Bloody damned liar and usurper. I’d have set my fields to the torch before I let him feed from my crops, if we’d lost the battle.” She bares her teeth in a snarl.

“Are you a Warden too, girl? I see Alistair, is it? Alistair is,” she says, nodding to Alistair’s blue and white armor.

“I am.”

“How’d that happen? Last I heard Howe…”

Ailis stiffens, and Bann Grainne sees it.

“Many of us in the bannorn don’t believe a word coming out of those snakes’ mouths,” she assures Ailis. “Bronach and Farhen—they’re in their tents over there, Farhen got wounded and Bronach is clucking over him—were just telling me how Rendon Howe’s filling Loghain’s ears that _Bryce Cousland_ and _Eleanor Mac Enraig_ were conspiring with Orlesians. Bryce and Eleanor! Now, whether you tell me or not, girl, know that I stand with you, and I’ll stand with you when you take back Highever. You and your companions have saved our hides today.”

“Can we count on you to help us combat the Blight?” Alistair blurts out. “We are, after all, Grey Wardens. That’s our whole thing. Fight the Blight, kill archdemons…”

Bann Grainne tips back her head and laughs.

“Funny child! Wulff was just up to Denerim begging Loghain to stop the civil war because his bann has been overrun by darkspawn. Yes, you’ll have the bannorn with you to stop the Blight. But we want Loghain off his throne, too. Anora may rule in name but that man is her puppetmaster.”

“Knowing what I know of Anora, I don’t think she dances to anyone’s tune but her own,” Ailis says quietly. “She led Cailan around like a puppy on a leash.”

“And that girl’s always adored her father,” Bann Grainne retorts. She stands.

“I don’t know about you young ones, but I’m exhausted. We go back to the castle tomorrow, but whatever supplies you need on the road to Denerim, you’re welcome to take. Good night.”

 

xxx

 

They pitch their tents, but Alistair is too awake to rest. So he wanders out to their campfire, standing in the shadows as he watches Leliana, who has first watch, talk to Morrigan.

“You have such lovely hair, Morrigan,” Leliana says, touching the dark strands. Alistair is eternally surprised she doesn’t get a hand chewed off for all the touching of evil shapeshifting witches she does. “The cut is simple, but it suits you. In Orlais, hair involved so many accessories: flowers, ribbons, jewels…”

“You will recall I lived in a forest, I hope,” Morrigan says. “I had no use for those things.”

“No? But gold is so pretty against your skin,” Leliana says. “We must get Ailis to go shopping with us once we reach Denerim. It is not Val Royeaux, but I am sure we will find beautiful things anyway. Like a dress for you! Silk—no, maybe velvet, for it is better, heavier against the cold in Ferelden. Red, dark red, with gold embroidery…”

“You prattle on so as if I have a care for embroidery,” Morrigan snaps, but Leliana only laughs and untangles Morrigan’s bun.

“Would you let me braid it? You wear the bun all the time, it is breaking the strands. You must take better care of your hair, Morrigan!”

“Do as you wish, it seems I cannot stop you,” Morrigan sighs.

“They are sweet, aren’t they?” Ailis murmurs, appearing at his side. Alistair isn’t startled; he felt her coming.

“Leliana? And that…that witch?” Alistair sputters.

“An odd friendship, but very sweet,” Ailis nods.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says. “You don’t like Orlais, but you let Leliana join us. Why?”

“She wouldn’t stop begging,” Ailis says, deadpan. Then she sobers. “No, I don’t like Orlais, though it’s hard to dislike Leliana. But…”

She spins him a tale of Leliana’s dream, divulged to her in pleading tones in the back room of a tavern. She says, “The dream was too…real. And, I guess, I wanted to believe the Maker was on our side.” She laughs a trifle bitterly. “It seemed precious few were, those days.”

Alistair takes her hand in his, and they stand there watching Leliana braid Morrigan’s hair by the firelight.

In the morning, Alistair is amused to note that Morrigan’s dark hair is in an Orlesian braid down her back. Her scowl at him, though, warns him not to say a word about it.

Naturally, he defies her.

“Nice hair, Morrigan.”

“Shut up.”

“What! But I was merely complimenting you!”

“It is very pretty, Morrigan,” Ailis says, appearing from her tent with her own brown hair in a braid. “I did not know you knew Orlesian braids. Will you teach me?”

Morrigan snarls, and turns into a raven and flies away.

Alistair’s sides eventually hurt him so much he has to stop laughing.

They bid farewell to Bann Grainne and the bannorn’s armies, and set out again on their journey to Denerim.

“You need anything, girl, you just drop by the castle,” Bann Grainne tells Ailis. She looks at Alistair, scrutinizing him. “You take care of her, lad.”

“I will,” he murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the banns mentioned here are real banns mentioned in-game by gossips, by Bodahn, by the Gnawed Noble Tavern guy...
> 
> And here we have one of my other great ships revealed.


	8. Denerim 1

"I pray you tell her to desist," Morrigan says to Ailis, a very little bit of pleading infused into her voice.

They have reached Denerim, and Leliana proceeded to drag everyone around the market, shopping for necessities and what Leliana deemed necessities.

"Look at this absolutely lovely cloth!" Leliana exults, holding a shining green fabric to her skin. "I have always liked green. I think they call this sage green, do they not? Oh, it is so lovely!"

"Someone remind her she is a warrior," Alistair murmurs under his breath.

"Morrigan, Morrigan, come see!" Leliana calls, then darts to drag the witch to a display. "This—this is the exact fabric I wish to dress you in! What a ravishing color. Of course it will need to be low cut, we do not want to obscure your features…"

"Will you stop staring at my breasts so, 'tis most disturbing!"

Ailis, on the other hand, is with Jowan, and they are more sedately choosing sturdy shirts and pants for everyone else.

Jowan has nothing at all but the torn robes on his back and the staff he holds as a cane. According to him, Isolde set his things afire trying to undo whatever spell he had allegedly cast on Redcliffe.

"Alistair," Ailis calls. He turns. "Do you think Jowan would do better in leather or splint?"

He mulls this over, looking at the mage's skinny form.

"He can't keep wearing robes, it will give him away," he agrees. "Leather is lighter, and he's not supposed to be in the thick of battle anyway. Leather armor."

She throws him a smile, even as Jowan looks more and more harried by the rapidly growing amount of items.

"My lady—Ailis—where did you get all the money to buy these things?"

Ailis laughs a trifle bitterly.

"Killed some bandits, was gifted by Teagan, plundered my home's treasury—does it matter? We will be well-supplied."

"It's a pity we can't dress him in Warden mage robes," Alistair says. " _That_ was good tailoring."

Leliana is relentlessly cheerful as they shop in Denerim, and yes, Morrigan was convinced into a dark red gown, "At least for a change from your Wilds clothing!" Leliana says. Alistair gets a new whetstone for Oathkeeper, Jowan gets a whole new wardrobe, and Ailis is very, very quiet through it all.

She keeps her silence up until it is time to find an inn to spend the night in. Then she dumps her purchases on the bed and leaves the inn.

"What's wrong?" Alistair asks the air.

Leliana has a dawning look of understanding on her face.

"Follow her," she tells him quietly. "I will take care of things here."

"Pester me endlessly, no doubt," Morrigan mutters. She sounds as if she rather looks forward to it.

Using his Warden senses, he follows Ailis to the wealthiest parts of Denerim, understanding dawning upon him as it did Leliana. He finds her in front of a beautiful white estate, wrought iron gates twisting into laurel leaves, the doors closed and everything empty and still.

"I haven't been here in years," Ailis says softly, not even turning. She knows he is there, the way he knew where she was. "But I still remember. This estate was built to be beautiful."

She took a deep breath.

"Sunlight would pour into the hallways through walls of windows—you cannot see the walls of windows, they are on the other side, but they are there. And do you see the sliding glass doors on the terraces? If you wished, you could step out to just look at the hustle and bustle of the city. I used to, in the early mornings before sword training.

"Inside," her voice takes on a wistful quality, "Inside, everything is blue and green. The last time we were here the curtains were blue. The carpets were green, Highever green, and the paintings…

"There were so many paintings. Landscapes, ancestors. My favorite was Elethea Cousland. Do you know her?"

"No," Alistair murmurs.

"You should. She was the Teyrna Who Knelt. To King Calenhad, though he wasn't king then." In one motion, she sits on the ground, still facing the estate, still not looking at Alistair. "In the portrait, Elethea's hair was a streak of brown against the sky, and she was angry _:_  her brow furrowed, her eyes burning blue. In her hands she held two wickedly sharp daggers, and whoever painted this picture had streaked white paint across the canvas to make the daggers glint _._  I spent so many hours staring at the painting and imagining myself to be Elethea. I wanted to be glorious. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win a war."

She turns to Alistair, and her eyes are shining in the moonlight.

"I apologize you had to come after me," she said. "It did not…sit well with me that my companions and I needed to go to an inn to stay in Denerim, when my family has a perfectly good estate right here. I suppose I was…miserable about it."

"It's all right," Alistair says, throat thick. "It's all right."

He settles next to her on the ground, and they watch the moon rise into the sky, over a white estate mournful for its rightful mistress.

xxx

When they return, Jowan is entering the room, holding small pots in his hands.

"What are those?" Alistair queries.

Instead of answering, he gestures them inside, and they all settle around the fireplace: Morrigan, Leliana, Alistair, Ailis, and Calenhad. Morrigan is in wolf form, and Calenhad sniffs at her curiously before cuddling up next to her.

Jowan stands in front of them, wringing his hands.

"I have a request to make," he says.

"All right…?" Leliana says.

"Could you…could you tattoo me?"

"Pardon?"

"Could you tattoo me?" Jowan repeats, before realizing that doesn't make anything clearer. He sighs and sits down on the floor, near everyone else. "This is rather a long story…I hope you don't mind."

"I love stories!" Leliana enthuses. Morrigan rolls her eyes, and Ailis smiles faintly. "Tell us, Jowan."

Jowan doesn't look at them, rather stares into the fireplace, at the dancing sparks and the crackling logs.

"It was Theron Mahariel who started it," he begins. "Theron was Dalish—is Dalish—he was taken by templars when he was young, but old enough to understand Dalish customs. Before he was taken to the Circle he was from Clan Sabrae, he said."

Jowan's hands twist around each other.

"Theron said that when Dalish elves come of age, they tattoo their faces with vallaslin. Blood writing. And he wanted to do the same once he passed the Harrowing.

"Well, Theron took the Harrowing, and he survived, and the next day he, Alindra Amell, and I gathered 'round after dinner to tattoo his face." A sad smile crosses his lips. "Of course we couldn't use actual blood, because then the Templars would say we were practicing blood magic. But we found some inks…We didn't know what real vallaslin looked like, so we just went with flowers and vines, because that seemed elven enough." Jowan laughs a little.

"And then it was Alindra's turn. Alindra was from Kirkwall, and all she could remember of her family was that they had a red crest that kind of looked like a bird. So she had a red bird tattooed on her face.

"It was supposed to be my turn next, but…they never Harrowed me.

"But now I'm a Warden," Jowan laughs, a little sadly. "And the Joining is kind of like a Harrowing too. So I figured, why not, right?

"So…will you?"

"Of course we will," Leliana burst out, tears in her eyes. Beside her, Ailis nodded. "Of course we will, Jowan."

"I'll help," Alistair volunteered. His throat was tight. Jowan hadn't outright said it, but the stories of the Circle mages, stories of being torn from their families…Jowan must have had a similar experience. And the fact that Jowan wanted to keep up a tradition started by three friends in a lonely tower must mean Jowan missed his friends, and wanted to honor them somehow.

Wanting to honor those gone from their lives, as well as mark a rite of passage…Alistair could understand that.

"I find it most ridiculous that you should mark yourself so obviously when Wardens and you are fugitives," Morrigan observes dryly, transforming back into humanity. "Nevertheless, I offer my small skill at healing, as well."

Ailis looks at her, eyebrow raised teasingly, while Leliana laughs outright.

"Morrigan, are you going soft on us?"

"Don't be absurd!" the witch snaps.

Leliana's hand is deemed most artistic, so it is she who dips brushes into the pots of ink Jowan brought and carefully brushes a design upon Jowan's temple and cheek. The Grey Warden griffon gradually takes shape upon Jowan's face.

Alistair contemplates the griffon thoughtfully, as Leliana applies the blue ink.

"I think I'd kind of like one too, Jowan, if you don't mind," he says. Everyone looks at him. "I'd like to—remember everyone."

"Oh, spare us the navel-gazing," Morrigan mocks.

"But of course," Leliana says. "But we may not have enough ink for the two of you."

"Three," Ailis says. "I would like one, as well."

"I do hope we have lyrium potions on hand," Morrigan snarks. "Else Jowan will have to learn some healing spells quickly."

"What, you can't do it yourself, O great witch of the wilds?" Alistair ripostes.

"As if  _you_ could," Morrigan snipes back.

He holds his hands up. "Oh, I'm no mage," he says. "But a witch of the wilds, well, she should be powerful enough to heal some tattoos, right?"

"I shan't be healing yours," Morrigan huffs.

Alistair grins.

Jowan's tattoo curves around his right eye, the griffon's outstretched wings almost cradling the grey eye. Grey eye, heh. There was a joke there, but Alistair didn't feel like thinking of one. The griffon's body is grey, the tips of its wings, its beak, and crest blue.

Ailis and Alistair, as two warriors with steady hands, take charge of slowly tapping in the ink with needles. Jowan winces a lot, which makes the process difficult, until Morrigan huffs and cast a numbing spell.

As they work, Alistair couldn't help but think of what tattoo Ailis would want to get, and where. (He blushes at some of the more risqué thoughts.) It would be the Cousland or Highever banner, for certain. Ailis wore her nobility on her sleeve, or around her neck like a weight. Or like a tattoo. Teyrna Ailis Cousland, who just happens to be a Grey Warden.

Alistair understands, sort of, because he is the other way around. He puts everything into being a Warden so he can forget he is the son of…well, let's not think about that.

All the same, he wonders uncomfortably if he oughtn't honor his father and brother in some way in his tattoo. He was a Warden, but he was also a, well…

Maybe.

The pots of ink were deemed insufficient for another tattooing that night, so they all go to bed, healing spells cast and good nights said. Tomorrow, they would tattoo Ailis and Alistair, they say.

But Alistair lies awake all night, wondering about his father and brother, and about Duncan, and about Ailis, and about Ailis's family…

He falls into a troubled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jowan and his tattoo can be found in my jowan tag at my tumblr, ladyhighever.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out Obsidian's Nobler Noble on the Nexus! It's where I got the Champion of Swords and the silverite armor etc etc. It's a must-have for replayers of noble origin!


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